Chapter XIV: Part 14

"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm, with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

"O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.

"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with warmth.

"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo, in a disgusted tone.

"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."

"I didn't know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."

"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking! They are just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.

"Gracious, I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here; I've got to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid; and if you'll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you forever."

"Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, "Go away, Teddy; I'm busy."

Thanks to the conspirators, the tables _were_ turned that night; for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket, arranged in his best manner, for a centre-piece; then the March family turned out _en masse_, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of gratitude, if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible,--coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue _was_ its own reward, after all.

Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety; and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill-feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible; she also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art-table, she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no signs of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered to her family.

"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May, with a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous.

"She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower-table is always attractive, you know, 'especially to gentlemen.'"

Jo _couldn't_ resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.

"Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.

"Everything of Amy's sold long ago; I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy, that day.

Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news; and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May's words and manner.

"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine--especially the art-table," she said, ordering out "Teddy's Own," as the girls called the college friends.

"'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table; but do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of _art_ in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.

"To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said, "Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.

"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's head.

To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.

Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.

The fair was pronounced a success; and when May bade Amy good night, she did not "gush" as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said, "Forgive and forget." That satisfied Amy; and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney-piece, with a great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced with a flourish.

"You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.

"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long, and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.

"Why, girls, you needn't praise me so; I only did as I'd be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is."

Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug,--

"I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary; you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall."

A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was illuminated to such a degree, when she read it, that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.

"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants--"

"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.

"No, dear, not you; it's Amy."

"O mother! she's too young; it's my turn first. I've wanted it so long--it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid--I _must_ go."

"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."

"It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.

"I'm afraid it is partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit; and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said,--'I planned at first to ask Jo; but as "favors burden her," and she "hates French," I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her.'"

"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! why can't I learn to keep it quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully,--

"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time; so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches or regrets."

"I'll try," said Jo, winking hard, as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness; but it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment;" and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.

"Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face, that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.

By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation; not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art than herself.

"It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career; for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it."

"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

"Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure; but she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.

"No, you won't; you hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said Jo.

"Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are," said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor drawing-teacher.

"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh; "if you wish it you'll have it, for your wishes are always granted--mine never."

"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife.

"Rather!"

"Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times."

"Thank you; I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.

There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed; then, just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob,--

"Oh, take care of them for me; and if anything should happen--"

"I will, dear, I will; and if anything happens, I'll come and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word.

So Amy sailed away to find the old world, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.

XXXI.

OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT.

"LONDON.
"DEAREST PEOPLE,--

"Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here
years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to
stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell
you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits
out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and
scribble since I started.

"I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but
after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day,
with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very
kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen
really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait
upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make
them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm
afraid.

"Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let
alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and
enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid
air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast
horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could
have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she
would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the
high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and
tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in
such a state of rapture.

"It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and
found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here
and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's
country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It
was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see
it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore _so_
picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

"At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,--Mr.
Lennox,--and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney,
he sighed and sung, with a look at me,--

'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
She lives on the banks of Killarney;
From the glance of her eye,
Shun danger and fly,
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.'

Wasn't that nonsensical?

"We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy
place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a
pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an
umbrella, and got shaved _à la_ mutton-chop, the first thing.
Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but
the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little
bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a
grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em the latest Yankee
shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I _must_ tell you what
that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with
us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my
room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on
the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling.

"I never _shall_ get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was
like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely
landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs,
ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy
children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than
ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a
contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee
biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,--the grass so green,
sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,--I was in a rapture
all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to
the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along
at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to
sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished
at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,--'Oh,
that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo,
darting to my window,--'How sweet! We must go there some time,
won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,--'No, my
dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.'

"A pause,--then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and
a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two
tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A
colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a
lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa,
aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young
ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo
settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and
I have the scenery all to myself.

"Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was
nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked,
and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some
new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready.
A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the
loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is
perfectly splendid; things seem so cheap--nice ribbons only
sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in
Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

"Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt
and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned
afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in
them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the
wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and
told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and
I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap
my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling
away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last,
in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it
open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,--

"'Now then, mum?'

"I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the
door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as
if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little
faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we
resigned ourselves to our fate.

"To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are
more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives
near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the
Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw,
my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers
rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous
Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and
powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest
children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep;
dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging
about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps
stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

"Rotten Row means '_Route de Roi_,' or the king's way; but now
it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses
are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but
the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our
rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they
trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high
hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one
rides,--old men, stout ladies, little children,--and the young
folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange
rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and
I thought it rather a nice little idea.

"In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to
describe it, that's impossible--so I'll only say it was sublime!
This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an
appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

"MIDNIGHT.

"It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning
without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think
came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and
Frank Vaughn! I was _so_ surprised, for I shouldn't have known
them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers;
Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for
he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard
from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their
house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see
them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did
have _such_ a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and
Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we
had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for
her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when
I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big
hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we
had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

"Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I _must_
stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing
here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a
jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who
say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English
lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense
am, as ever, your loving
AMY."

"DEAR GIRLS,-- "PARIS.

"In my last I told you about our London visit,--how kind the
Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I
enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum
more than anything else,--for at Hampton I saw Raphael's
cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner,
Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The
day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English
picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I
could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We
'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank,
and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow
to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they
cannot be outdone in hospitality, _I_ think. The Vaughns hope to
meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully
disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends,
and the boys very nice fellows,--especially Fred.

"Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again,
saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland.
Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she
couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad
he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know
what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and
insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make
people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned,
and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good
deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the
'_parley vooing_,' as uncle calls it.

"Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from
morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay
_cafés_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy
days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn
up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no
soul for art; but _I_ have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as
fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better,
for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his
baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's
little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and
many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them
when I come, but haven't time to write.

"The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,--so full of _bijouterie_
and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy
them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow
it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are _très magnifique_.
I've seen the imperial family several times,--the emperor an
ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed
in bad taste, _I_ thought,--purple dress, green hat, and yellow
gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his
tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his
four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a
mounted guard before and behind.

"We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely,
though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la
Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small
rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or
pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in
when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.

"Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the
balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is
so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too
tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining,
and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever
knew,--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish
Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns
are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find
fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

"Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we
shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty
letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and
describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised.
It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give
you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

"Adieu; I embrace you tenderly. VOTRE AMIE."

"MY DEAR MAMMA,-- "HEIDELBERG.

"Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell
you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you
will see.

"The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed
it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read
about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At
Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with
whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was
a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked
by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and
hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the
students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing
I ever saw,--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress
opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of
stone.

"When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them
scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and
go laughing away,--to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next
morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his
vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and
said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him,
for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.
I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to
look like it.

"The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where
Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to
look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she
hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would
be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house,
Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very
lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the
story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or
pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I
ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and
it mortifies me.

"Now comes the serious part,--for it happened here, and Fred is
just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite
fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling
friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to
feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily
adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't
flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and
have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I
don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother
will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary
little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me,
I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him,
and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young,
clever enough, and very rich,--ever so much richer than the
Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should
be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have
the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city
house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses,
but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as
English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've
seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and
pictures of the country place, with its park, great house,
lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should
ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up
so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I
hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I
can help. One of us _must_ marry well; Meg didn't, Jo won't,
Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round.
I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of
that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well,
and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very
fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning
the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible
to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little
things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side
of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to
me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us,
and then said something to his friend,--a rakish-looking
baron,--about '_ein wonderschönes Blöndchen_,' Fred looked as
fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew
off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but
is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might
guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

"Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,--at
least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going
to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking
about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the
beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English
wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine;
so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there
trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with
scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got
into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling
through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band
below, and waiting for my lover, like a real story-book girl. I
had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was
ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool,
and only a little excited.

"By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying
through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I
forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said
he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was
very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only
had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and
disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he
said, as he shook hands,--and said it in a way that I could not
mistake,--'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'

"I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied,
and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes,
for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know
he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted,
that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort
yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a
foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then,
if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he
says 'Will you, please?'

"Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know
what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your
'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as
much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could
see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.

"Ever your AMY."

XXXII.

TENDER TROUBLES.

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,--

"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother, with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon; but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and, after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out,--

"All serene! Coming in to-night."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,--

"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate, apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What _will_ mother say? I wonder if he--" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we _are_ growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated "philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month; but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way."

As every one _was_ out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,--long, broad, well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days, when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction,--

"Now, _this_ is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,--

"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,--sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have a _went_."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play Mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure; but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin,--

"'Out upon you, fie upon you,
Bold-faced jig!'"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a most eligible _parti_ by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you _must_ have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl maybe," and Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of his own.